In the Cover of Darkness
by Cgal the Avenger
Summary: Esmeralda chooses to flee from Frollo's insanity, escaping across the sea to Persia. She dances for the sultan, and becomes one of his daughter's handmaidens. But the past rarely is left behind forever. Rated M for sex. History's a little wonky in this one, hope it doesn't detract too much!
1. Escape

The sultan's palace was a new world. A new world to escape the old.

Claude Frollo de Tirechappe arrived in the hot, lurid palace a mere two years after the torching of Paris. Mere years after a single gypsy's kiss had inspired in him such darkness that it had frightened all of France.

He should have known fate would punish him. By the great King's decree he was finally stopped, before Paris was ash. However, he was given a choice. Leave Paris, and suffer no consequence. Or the noose.

Exile or death. He had picked the former, and boarded a ship to a long forgotten place. A place he had visited years ago, in his youth, before becoming a minister.

Persia.

The place was hot, stifling, teeming with a matter of oddities, vices, and temptations. Most prevalent of all: the aura of mystery surrounding the sultan.

However, as soon as he had informed a messenger of his arrival, he was summoned to the palace.

The sultan, embraced him like an old friend, clapping him on the back, calling him _brother._ He stiffened beneath the energetic man's enthusiasm.

"You've grown so old since last you came! So much gray, so many wrinkles... Persian air will do you well, perhaps turn back the years," the ruler had said.

"Well, I will be here as long as you require any services of mine. I am in need of an occupation," Frollo said. Although the sultan was friendly now... Claude knew of his capriciousness as well when he passed by the pit, the stinking, rotting pit filled with headless bodies.

"Of course! But what may I ask prevents you from doing your old one?"

"There were some... _difficulties_ in my duty I could not remedy."

No questions were asked after that.

Exile was a blessing. His duty hardly mattered anymore.

Jehan was dead. The hunchback loathed him. His men had deserted him.

And the gypsy?

The gypsy had spurned him. And in fear of his love... had disappeared one night from the harbor of Paris.

There was nothing tying him to Paris.

She still danced in his mind. Her name tingled on his tongue each night as he groped at himself in the dark. He wanted... he wanted desperately to feel. To feel something other than numbness, the coldness that pervaded him.

He was cold. Some may say cruel. But the truth was... he hated the coldness the bitterness that gripped his heart.

He hardly cared for Paris. He hardly cared for the lofty goals of purging the city of sin. Not anymore.

He only cared for her.

xxx

It was hard to frighten a gypsy.

Hard, but not impossible.

Esmeralda realized this wryly as she fled in the night from Paris, stowing away on a ship.

She hated running. She hated being a coward. But there were some things that frightened her greatly in this world. One of them was losing her family. The other was being dominated by a man like Frollo.

So she picked a third choice.

She let one soldier see her as she slipped aboard the vessel. She hardly cared where it was going, so long as it was far away. It was as the ship departed that she whistled to the soldier, a mere boy of seventeen.

Their eyes locked. His mouth fell open.

As Esmeralda left, she knew that the soldier would report to Frollo she had departed. He would have no more reason to torch the city. She would still be free.

Alone, but free.

Alone.

She was alone for a long time. She became the dancing girl, the crew's entertainment.

Even though some spoke warmly, if coarsely to her, she still was _alone_.

There were times she looked back. There were times she wondered about _him. _

He was so vile, so murderous!

_Passionate, charismatic,_ whispered the dark, twisted recesses of her mind.

She found herself pitying the man. _Pity? Ha!_ Then she would remind herself of his misdeeds, his madness.

She still desired something though. A nagging something.

To unhinge him. To overthrow that sanctimonious, arrogant man.

It was thoughts like this that alarmed her. Thoughts like this that made her wonder if she was more like _him _than she thought.

Esmeralda became lost in new worlds she had never seen before. The ship stopped along many places. Spain, Greece... then finally... Persia.

It was because of the captain she came to be at the sultan's palace. It was because of the captain she was summoned to dance.

The sultan was a man of power. But in Esmeralda's experience, men of power are easily swayed by gyrating women.

She was invited _("Cordially invited,"_ the captain had whispered to her in awe) to join his court, and become one of the handmaidens for his daughter. She would be housed, protected, honored... so long as she danced each day for the white-haired sultan.

Where else was she to go? She accepted.

Her dark skin made it easier to blend in to the world of Persia. She wore their garb, wore the hanging veil across her mouth and nose. She became a faceless servant, only stripping herself of the mask when she crawled onto her mattress to sleep each night.

She lived in peace. At least the closest thing to peace before the whole mess in Paris started.

She still dreamed that he came to her.

Sometimes she shivered in fear.

But sometimes she was set aflame.


	2. Awakening

For two years, she was undisturbed.

And then, an awakening.

The water pitcher slips from her hands the moment she sees him across the courtyard. The shattering barely registers in her ears as her eyes now gaze upon his face.

_His robes are gone_. That was the first thing she thought as she saw him.

The black shapeless robes. Gone. The pointy, ridiculous chaperon. Gone. The only thing that he had kept were his rings, the same rings that had caused goosebumps to rise on her neck as he languidly caressed her throat.

She's paralyzed. Part of her wants to run. Part of her wants to fling herself at him, beat against his chest with her fists, and scream _why?_

And part of her wants to melt against him.

The contradictory feelings swirl within her. _Why? Why?! _

She barely hears the chiding, the scolding of Lady Ari_, the head bitch_ as the other handmaidens call her. Her shrill voice does not reach her ears; she only hears his charismatic baritone as it floats across the courtyard. He speaks; he purrs like a self-serving feline as he speaks with one of the sultan's advisors about God-knows-what. She feels slighted, and though its petulant, she thinks, _Talk to me_.

_Look at me. Do you see me?_ She thinks viciously.

It is only Lady Ari's sharp pinch at her forearm that wakes her from her trance. "Clean up this mess!" she hisses in broken French.

She now bends down, sweeps the broken china into a cloth.

Claude Frollo is now walking aimlessly past the fountains. He trails his pale fingers in the water, an act that surprises her with its idleness.

She watches him. Despite herself, despite the rules, she attempts to lock eyes with him.

Claude feels the eyes burning into him. He looks up, and sees one of the handmaidens on her knees, sweeping broken china.

She looks lost. She doesn't seem like the others. _Probably not well trained_, he thinks.

She's a bold thing, to look at him so intently. He cocks his head to the side, wondering if she'll mimic him like a charmed snake. Or perhaps he is the charmed one. The thought strikes him as amusing, and a smirk touches his lips.

Esmeralda sees the wicked smirk. It holds traces of that leering smile that so frightened her before. But... it's more humorous. More mischievous. Beneath her veil, her lips purse in a frown.

Lady Ari is still admonishing her, slipping into her native tongue to berate the gypsy for her stupidity.

She's still sweeping. The other woman is scolding her mercilessly. Claude notes that she seems unmoved by the chastisement. _Perhaps a little more discipline would take care of that._ He smirks again.

Esmeralda sees the facial muscles twitch in his face, and knows he is still as arrogant, still as high and mighty as he was before. It makes her blood boil to know that after all this time, he still can stand there, proud as a rooster, simpering at all the beggars at his feet.

Her eyes narrow and she knows that he will not keep strutting about, preening himself as if he were some exotic bird. Not if she has anything to say about it. She slowly gathers the shards of china, and walks out of the courtyard, still not listening to Lady Ari's shrieked insults.

Claude Frollo still smirks as she leaves. Her boldness is actually refreshing to him.

The sultan strolls beside him, a huge entourage of women and guards in tow. They all bow their heads, not daring to meet eyes with their ruler. "Frollo, I must say, your advisement on the courts was quite revelatory. I must thank you, friend."

They are not friends. Only men with common interests. Well, men who _had _common interests. As Frollo sees more of Persia, and of the sultan's rule, he cannot help but feel that he has changed. The gaining of power... once so sweet a prospect, now seems fruitless.

"I am glad to be of service," Frollo drawls, his low voice rumbling deep from somewhere inside of his chest. He always relished the power of his voice. Especially on the gypsies, those lowborn races.

He had so much pride. So much potential to be the greatest of men. Squandered. Because of...

He instantly banishes thoughts of _her_ from his mind. He can't even bring himself to enunciate her name.

The sultan never catches that his guest's mind is somewhere else. "Truly, your services are valuable. Of so much value... that I must give you a little prize," he says boldly.

He snaps his fingers and a veiled, scantily clad woman steps forward. Despite where he is, despite the pressure to follow custom, Frollo finds himself shaking his head. "No reward is necessary. You have done enough for me already," Claude says. His jaw clenches. He holds back the insults, the sermons of piety from erupting out of his mouth.

"My friend... I insist. If you wish, you may pick whatever woman you want. Even one of my daughter's handmaidens. Do you want a thin one? A fat one? A virgin to deflower? A whore? A dancer?"

Dancer. _She_ danced.

The sultan sees a look of panic, of pure fear pass over Claude's face. With a devious grin, the man says, "Oh, do I have a beauty for you!"


	3. In the Cover of Night

Esmeralda slips silently into the darkened room, keeping the veil on her face.

Her heart pounds furiously within her.

_What the hell am I doing?_ The oft repeated mantra sounds once more in her head as she locks the door behind her. Ever since she had been summoned to "service" the minister, her thoughts buzz like hornets within her head, knowing at any moment this could go wrong, _everything_ could go wrong.

She hears a rustle, then heavy, authoritative sounding steps. Her eyes fix on the white, gossamer bed curtains, lit eerily by the silver moon high above the balcony. A cool, but delicate breeze whispers into the room, moving the curtains.

A pale hand, with exotically colored rings on each finger, appear at the edge of the curtain. His fingers wrap possesively, powerfully around the delicate material. With a self assured, fluid motion of his arm, the bed curtain is whisked out of his way.

Claude Frollo de Tirechappe steps out into the ray of moonlight, the only source of light in the room. Esmeralda stifles a gasp. The moon leaches him of any color, not that he has much to begin with. He is a ghost... no, a white soldier for God. _How deceiving things are in the moon,_ Esmeralda thinks wryly to herself, her mind conjuring up the images of malicious tirades, his fiery rampage within Paris. _All for me. _

Esmeralda bows her head, although it pains her to do so. To be submissive to him. To admit a lower station than this man is galling to her sensibilities. But custom is custom. Tonight she is not Esmeralda. She is a nameless, faceless servant, a tool to be used.

Perhaps a tool to use _him_.

Claude Frollo's eyes narrowed as he sees the dark, masked woman slip into his room. She stands in the darkness, but he can sense her trepidation. "I did not call for any services, wench. I am not to be sullied by a daughter of vice and sin," he sneers.

He showed so much respect outwardly, outside of his own bedroom walls to the sultan. But this girl, he does not need to pretend. She is no better than the whores that walk the streets for money in Paris. He will not fall into the same traps that men before him ordinarily had in order to "keep with a custom". He will not bend.

He may not have much left. But he still had dignity, his piousness. He won't relinquish that to any woman...

Not _any_ woman.

Esmeralda slowly raises her head, her green eyes burrowing into his gray. She smirks beneath her veil. Good. So he was just as stubborn as she remembered. She loved a challenge.

And that was what tonight was about. No talk. No lovemaking. Sex. Pure manipulation of his body, of his vices. _That was the plan,_ she reminds herself.

She slowly moves forward. "Are you deaf? Out girl!" Frollo commands, that deep voice sending chills of fear and ecstasy down her spine.

Claude watches her slowly approach, stepping into the shaft of moonlight. She wears barely anything at all. Scraps are what separate him from seeing her entirely nude. Her heaving bosom is luscious, ripe. Her powerful legs ripple beneath bronzed skin. Her hips curve out, begging to be touched, caressed by greedy hands.

_Not mine_, he reminds himself. But he's slowly losing his mind as he stares at her. She seems familiar. But so mysterious.

To his bafflement, the girl does turn away, does not bow her head to him. No. She is bold. She stares the viper right in the eye, without a trace of fear.

Green. Emerald green eyes. _Esmeralda..._

_No. not her,_ Frollo reminds himself. That brilliant green... it is so familiar. In an instant he sees Esmeralda, dancing in the square.

But it isn't her. It can't be.

Esmeralda regards him with as much courage as she can muster. For a moment, she sees a flash of recognition in his steely eyes. Her face grows flushed as she thinks he must know who she is. But then, the shock is restrained, and he becomes the same rigid man he presented himself to be in Paris.

Presentation. That's all this restrained facade was. With the right touch he would break, let out all the primal passion within him. That same passion that makes her quiver in fear and in longing...

Esmeralda steps even closer to him. Wondering if he will finally come to his senses, push her away.

But Claude lets her come. He was too distracted by those green eyes that burn in the cold light of the moon.

_Careful._ Esmeralda knows she is treading on dangerous ground. Yet she cannot back away. The burning... the fire that smolders within her is too great. She needs... (_oh_, how she hates to admit it!) she _needs_ his touch. His recklessness.

It was with that thought that she lurches forward, removes her veil and kisses him.

Her onslaught is so sudden, he has to step back to recover. No... the sultan's women did not kiss. They performed carnal acts. But kissing? Removing their veils? It was forbidden.

Those would have been his thoughts, but Frollo is so occupied by the ferocious, yet soft lips against his that he can barely remember his name, let alone protocol. Her tongue forces itself into his mouth, tasting, plundering. He backs up, plunging them both into darkness.

He is surprised. For once. This knowledge spurs Esmeralda on. She begins to kiss more frantically, needing him, wanting him. He tastes like lusciousness, sin, pure vice, Esmeralda notes.

How often had she dreamed of doing this? Of fulfilling that dark desire that would not stop nagging her, bothering her?

It was so wrong... it was so right... _Oh!  
_ Frollo begins to respond, takes her somewhat eagerly into his mouth. He can taste desperation, longing, passion on her lips like some exotic flavor. _Why? _

_Does it matter?_ He thinks. Perhaps... for one night... he can pretend this girl... this girl with the emerald eyes... is the long disappeared love. The long disappeared bane, _torture,_ of his existence.

Esmeralda presses her breasts to his chest, relishing his sharp intake of breath as she does so. _Now you are the one who will squirm,_ she thinks briefly, remembering how uncomfortable, how _wrong _he had made her feel in Notre Dame as he pressed against her, sniffing like a wild animal. She smirks wickedly against his lips. Oh she was being so bad... and she loved every second of it.

He now stumbles back through the gossamer bed curtain, towards the plush bed behind him. He barely registers the thin fabric of the curtain brushing his face, too consumed by the mystery girl's soft, full breasts molded to his rigid chest. Backwards... until the backs of his knees touched the bed.

He falls back, crashing down on the bed. _Descending into hell,_ he briefly thinks. Esmeralda clambers on top of him. To her delight, as she straddles him, she can feel his hardness swelling beneath his breeches.

He gasped as she ground against him, undulating her hips. _Oh God._ She was now veiled by darkness. But he swears.. each time he closed his eyes, he can see the gypsy atop him... riding him. Her green eyes burning with fire, hellfire, her tumbling raven locks tossed back. She is haughty, untamed.

As she grinds on top of him, she is forced on by her memories of his arrogance. His hypocrisy. Each movement of his in the cathedral spurs her forward. It is anger. It is lust. It is _wildness_.

She removes his breeches quickly, then his shirt, all the while, licking and sucking all the exposed skin she could find. He is salty-sweet, more delicious than any wine she has ever tasted. Every so often, she looks up into the darkness, towards his face. Although it is dark, although his face is hidden from her, she can feel the arousal, the passion that irradiates from him.

_Stop,_ Claude thinks. As her mouth traveled lower, lower on his body, he suddenly realizes what is happening. A stranger, a _whore_ is pleasuring him. Sinful. Unforgiveable. "No," he murmurs.

All thoughts of resistance fly from his mind the moment her hot, soft mouth wraps around his cock.

She may not be the whore Frollo thinks she is, but she still has some experience. And to unhinge Frollo... it arouses her even more. As she sucks and bobs her head up and down his length a nagging wetness begins to form between her hot thighs. He tastes good in her mouth.

_Why? Why, why, why? _She does not ponder, only reacts. Can she really forget so quickly his crimes? Can she really give herself so passionately to a man who hates everything she is?

Frollo releases a moan, unable to silence his own pleasure. She dutifully sucks on him, and seems to relish it. She moans, and the vibrations of her mouth rattle him to his bones. Piousness, fidelity, purity: the familiar mantra, that singsong code has fled from him, leaving behind the insatiable monster in its place. He no longer cared.

His hands drift low. He can just reach her bosom. With clumsy fumbling motions, he wrestles her top from her body, tearing it violently in the process. Esmeralda is shocked at the numbing heat that floods her body as he did so. Manipulative, teasing fingers float down to her nipples, lightly squeezing them. She lets out another low, keening moan.

Her voice. It almost sounds like... _her._ Claude suddenly winces. _Unfaithful, ungrateful man, seeking pleasure from a whore,_ he chides himself.

With as much strength as he can muster, he pushes her away nearly groaning in agony as cold, unforgiving air stings his manhood. "That's enough..." he gasps out, his thoughts incoherent.

_I hardly think so,_ she spits back viciously in her mind. His anxiety, his fear fuel her on. She strips herself of the loincloth that serves as her clothing. Before he can toss her away like a used rag, she crawls over him, positioning her hot core above his still burgeoning cock.

"You're not-" he protests.

But then he snaps his lips over his teeth

No. He will not share such intimacy with a concubine of sin. Out of the question.

Esmeralda's heart jolts at the half-stated comment. She knows instinctively what the ending words of that sentence are.

_"You're not her." _

Still. Still he was faithful to her.

Silence pervades now. Heavy silence that presses her ears. She realizes the minister has fled, and left this man, this tortured man in his place.

A new tenderness wells in her heart despite herself. Esmeralda leans forward, her lips brushing against his ear.

"I can be if you like," she whispers.

Before Claude can cry out in pure shock, Esmeralda lowers herself onto him and begins to move.

Those eyes, that voice! It's all so _her_. Has he gone _mad_? Had the blood rushing through his body ripped through his mind, causing him to imagine that she was on top of him, touching him_, fucking _him? Frollo instantly tries to discern her face to see if it is indeed her. But the pleasure, the intense pleasure she is giving him... he can only lie back and moan pitifully as she rode him, bucking and rolling her hips like the vixen she is.

The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. Esmeralda moans as she bobs up and down, savoring the hot, burning sensations smoldering through her body. She goes faster, unable to get enough of him. Frollo begins to thrust energetically into her, eager to meet her movements.

She leans over and begins to hoarsely moan to him, "Fuck me. Fuck me like there is no tomorrow. I am yours for tonight." His cock hit another point of pleasure within her, and she screeches as hot undulations of huge magnitude shake her body to its bones.

That hoarse, seductive voice... it was her. At least that's what he imagines. Claude nearly weeps as she begins to speak, the vulgarity, the promises of pleasure rolling off her tongue like sweet, hot honey. Esmeralda. _Begging_ him to pleasure her. It is too good a fantasy. Too good to be true.

With a growl he hooks his arms beneath hers and slams her into the bed, hammering into her with all his might. Esmeralda begins to scream ecstatically as he thrusts into her. He becomes more animal than man, a primal carnal beast that incites within her hate and passion.

As he mercilessly hammers into her slick center, he cannot help but dig his fingers into her hair, start pulling at the scalp. He imagines how _her_ face looks. Enraged, defiant. Her teeth are bared at him, snapping together inches from his hook-like nose as he fucks her. Esmeralda lets out an enraged cry as he yanks her raven hair. "Witch!" he spits out at her, venom laced into his words. "Vixen. Bitch. Harlot!" he hisses as he pushes himself deeper inside her. He grounds himself into her, his back arching each time. He hates that she makes him feel so weak, so out of control. Each word, each delicious perversity that falls from his lips makes him feel in power again, and makes her writhe in both anger and arousal. He lurches forward and sinks his teeth into her shoulder, relishing her scream of outrage.

Esmeralda feels so hot beneath him. She can't believe how good, and how_ bad_ he makes her feel. "Fuck," he whispers, the word falling from his lips as she wraps her legs tighter around him. _My words exactly_, she thinks. But then, he hits that special place within her, and all thoughts depart as she howls like a bitch in heat. The man who burnt Paris for her is giving her such immense pleasure.

She hates him. She loves him.

"Esmeralda," he groans, thrusting the both of them closer to ecstasy. He sets a frantic, heart stopping pace as old as time.

Man and woman meld together in their pleasure, their burning pleasure.

The coil, the taut knot of pleasure is tightening within her. Everything is unbearably hot, to the point of pain.

And then... bliss. Sharp fingernails bite into his shoulder blades as she screams shamelessly for the world to hear. Esmeralda's back arches as her whole body is wracked by pleasure. Her muscles clamp him like a warm, wet vise. For a moment, stars dance in front of his eyes, and he roars, reminding Esmeralda that he is a beast. And she loves it.

He violently thrusts into her until he comes, the force of his climax so great it slams into his center like a stone wall.

He explodes in ecstasy... then... sweet bliss. He collapses on top of her, panting and baying like a wild animal.

Esmeralda looks above her, her eyes flickering lazily over his head that buries itself at her chest. Her muscles twitch. The only sound is their breathing, their gulping breaths. Her heart is still racing, her chest quivering in time with that palpitating organ.

They are both silent. Frollo can barely move he is so drained.

Esmeralda feels it hit her like a tidal wave. Esmeralda. Gypsy queen. Had _fucked_ Frollo.

Her hands rise, floating up through the air. She slowly lowers them upon his head. Claude expects a heavy blow.

Instead, she languidly runs her fingers through his hair, and admires its soft texture.

_So he is human after all,_ she muses to herself. Strangely, she feels a pricking sensation at her eyes, as if _tears_ were forming.

Claude Frollo at last lifts his head, to look at her darkened face. He removes his length from her womanhood, leaving her strangely bereft. Then with shaky arms, he gathers her to his chest, and drags her lazily into the moonlight that now streams through the curtains and splashes across his bed.

A jolt of shock still runs through his body as he looks upon her face. Esmeralda suddenly no longer cares. Her plan... her manipulations fly out the window as he tenderly places a hand on her cheek, stroking the features he had commit to memory, yet still feels so privileged about touching, seeing.

"Am I mad? Do I dream of my angel, or is she here before me?" he murmurs, his voice hoarse. His fingers caressed her face.

She can hurt him now. With one word, she can make him believe he is mad, destroy him. That is the plan. That is her intention.

But Esmeralda simply replies, "I am."

They stare at each other in the darkness, the silvery moonbeams their only source of light. No words are spoken as gray eyes burrow into green.

A lifetime of emotions are exchanged in their stares. And then... Claude bends his head and kisses her tenderly. His lips still smolder... but they are not beastly, not ravenously devouring her. They betray him of a tender emotion. _Love._

Despite the heat, she shivers, her sweat cooling down her body. Esmeralda suddenly feels a blanket become draped over her, and she realizes the monster can be gentle as well.

And then, in the darkness, after they had traveled the world to avoid each other, in this foreign place so distant from the world they knew... Esmeralda and Frollo surrender _something _to each other, and fall into the darkness of blissful sleep.


End file.
